A Moment In Time
by GemThest
Summary: Sherlock isn't the best at reassurance. Especially not when he's the catalyst for the pain. But when it comes to John, he's willing to step outside his comfort zone. Bromance, could be considered pre-slash.


**Author's Note: I'm a previous author on FanFiction (this is a new account) and a long time reader, especially of BBC's Sherlock. The vagueness in this story was originally unintended – I just wanted to get the vision out of my head and add specifics later – but then I really liked how it turned out. This is my first attempt to upload anything in this fandom, so it would be great to hear your thoughts and feedback. No pressure, though, I just hope you enjoy my little oneshot!**

**Disclaimer: This is a fanfiction. Therefore, I do not own these characters.**

**Story Note: Parenthesis and italics (**_**example**_**) indicate Sherlock's thoughts.**

Sherlock paced back and forth, his mind racing as he tried to figure out what had happened. John's angry words echoed in his head, replaying over and over. The detective could envision each aspect of the other man, breaking it down automatically in his mind. The angry gesticulation as John yelled (_an obvious reaction from a man of action)_ the straight set of his shoulders (_remainder from the army, strong in time of stress)_ standing tall even though he was so short (_confidence and belief in his words)_ the tiny creases in his face (_reaction from this arguing; he doesn't like it)_ the depth in his eyes (_not actually angry, just sad)_ –

Sherlock stopped suddenly and closed his eyes, trying to calm his racing mind. Picking John apart wasn't going to make things better. He wanted to understand his friend, yes, his dear Watson, but analyzing him like an experiment wouldn't help. John Watson was a person, a complex and intricate man, and no matter how hard he tried, Sherlock could not reduce that enough to replicate conditions or emotions and apply it to the lab setting he created in his mind.

He ran his hands through his hair once, trying to figure out what to do without analyzing (_is that even possible?_). Taking two steps forward, he looked out the window, his mind flashing back to the many times he had done so in the past, trying to put together a case or fighting against sleep or hunger or even just, on occasion, attempting to calm his mind. It was part of him; Sherlock could stop thinking the way he could stop breathing – with focus, he could hold it back for a while, but it was instinct and it was natural and necessary and he didn't even have to _try_, he just did.

_(Stop.)_

For a brief moment, everything was quiet in Sherlock's head. Then, as it all came rushing back, Sherlock had a vague (_annoying, I thrive on specifics) _idea of what he could do.

…

Sherlock slowly made his way up the stairs to John's room, making enough noise so that John could lock the door if he didn't want any intrusion. He glanced at the frame of the door as he put his hand on the handle (_closed but not fully latched, didn't close in anger, I was right about being sad)_ and turned it slowly. He opened the door to see John, sitting on the edge of his bed and facing away.

Sherlock closed the door behind him and took a step forward, waiting to see if John would speak. After a moment, John turned his head slightly to look at Sherlock from the corner of his eye, but still he remained silent. Sherlock took in every aspect of his friend, his bright eyes sweeping over the other man. Head down, curled in on himself (_departure from normal military straightness, reaction causing him regress further back – closer to fetal position), _hands clenched together in front of him, grasping almost as if in prayer (_seeking consolation and strength, holding hands in a sign of intimacy but he has no one to comfort him)_ a single tear stain across his cheek, becoming blurred about halfway down (_brushed aside by his – )_ Sherlock checked John's hands ( – _right hand but not in anger, it went partly down before he wiped because he considered not bothering – )_

John opened his mouth and Sherlock stopped analyzing, focusing on what his friend would say. He waited, but John didn't make a sound, and after a moment Sherlock stepped forward. His hand reached out as if to touch John's shoulder, but then he lowered it, not sure if he would be the right choice for comfort at the moment (_at the moment? Or ever?_).

He waited.

Sherlock waited, his idea taking him no further than coming up to John's room and letting John indicate the path from there. He had no idea what he was doing (_frustrating)_.

So he waited.

But waiting with a rushing mind makes time feel much longer than for those of slower mentality. Every thought runs into the next and crowds each second together.

He was not good at being patient.

Sherlock made to leave, turning slowly and heading back toward the door. He didn't want to push his presence on John, didn't want to cause any further discomfort. Perhaps he needed to mourn in peace. Just as he reached the door, he heard John's voice behind him,

"Sherlock."

Sherlock stopped and turned, making full eye contact with John for the first time since he'd entered the room. The despair Sherlock saw in his eyes was too much and Sherlock knew he was completely out of his comfort zone. He looked at John a moment longer, then responded in a low, soft voice,

"John."

He waited, but John didn't say anything more. Sherlock looked at him curiously, his head tilting slightly to one side. (_What does John want? How am I supposed to help him?_) Sherlock tried to think back to other instances like this, but then he realized that he had never been in this position before (_incredibly unhelpful)_. Normal people would try to comfort, but Sherlock wasn't normal. His relationship with the good doctor was as normal as he had ever gotten with another person, but still he didn't know what to do.

They stared at each other from across the room until finally John broke eye contact, looking back down at his hands. Sherlock stood, speechless (_that's new, I'll contemplate that later)_ and waited for a cue from John for what to do. When none was forthcoming he continued back to the door. He was just reaching his hand out when John spoke again.

"Wait…" there was a pause, like he was weighing whether or not he should continue. "…please."

And that did it. Sherlock didn't know what he was doing – he was completely out of his depth in attempting true comfort and not manipulating for a case – but he went over to his friend and sat down next to him on his bed, laying a hand on his shoulder. John turned his head away from Sherlock and took a deep breath. Sherlock waited, letting his hand rest on John, being a source of (_what, strength? You? Right.)_ whatever he could be. Maybe he wasn't what John needed at that moment, but he was what John had, and he was going to do at least one thing right by this man who put up with so much of his unorthodox way of life.

John took another breath and then relaxed his hands, which had remained clenched this entire time. He rubbed his face slowly and then turned his head to look at Sherlock, who remained steadfast by his side, hand resting lightly on his shoulder.

Sherlock viewed John curiously, trying to deduce his thoughts, but realized then that he didn't have enough data, didn't have enough to (_think, think, think!) _know this man with whom he spent so much of his time. After a moment he nodded and smiled, a small smile, trying to convey that yes, he was here and yes, he would always stay when he was needed. John nodded back and turned to look ahead of him, rubbing a tired hand over his face once more.

"I'll make tea, yes?" He asked Sherlock, standing and turning to leave without waiting for a reply. Sherlock let his hand fall to the side, the lack of warmth from John's shoulder causing a startling shiver to run up his arm.

"Yes, thank you."


End file.
